You Can't Let It Fester
by deangirl1
Summary: Getting shot with rock salt, getting blown through a wooden door, getting pistol whipped, and being thrown into a cellar has to have consequences. This is a bridge between Asylum, Scarecrow, and Faith.
1. Inbetween The Lines

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing and never will as I am totally in Kripke's debt for the loan of his boys…

**A/N:** This was my very first attempt at fanfiction. It is complete, so I'll post as time allows. Why, you may well ask, am I posting this here and now? (As it was posted elsewhere, _then_)… This is in answer to Mad Server's query as to where I got a certain nickname… I leave it up to all of you to determine what I am Queen of by the time we get to the end of this little "bridge."

**Spoilers** for Asylum and Scarecrow acts as a bridge between Asylum and Faith…

* * *

You Can't Let it Fester

Dean heard the phone ring, but he was just too damn sore and tired to answer it or respond to Sam's demand that he do so. As soon as he realized that Sam was talking to Dad, though, Dean forced his aching body up. He had been lying uncharacteristically on his back because his chest was bruised and raw from the rock salt he'd taken when Sam shot him. He quickly dragged a t-shirt on as he sat up. He hadn't put one on to sleep in because he was pretty sure it would stick to the open sores and he'd wanted them to get some air to help with the healing. However, he didn't want to worry Sam or rub his nose in the injury – Sammy already felt guilty enough for hurting him.

Dean demanded the phone from Sam when it became clear that he and John were getting into yet another fight. God, couldn't they ever give it a rest? This was the first time they'd spoken in so long and they just got right down to it.

As Dean wrote down the names and dates that John gave him, Sam stormed into the bathroom, and Dean heard the shower come on. Dean didn't ask where his father was, he just accepted that it was safer for them to be apart right now. That didn't mean it didn't hurt, but Dean was an obedient soldier and did what he was told. And right now he had a job to do, and they needed to be on the road as quickly as they could be, so Dean decided he could be packing as Sam showered.

He hadn't noticed how stiff and sore his back was when he first sat up, but it came in loud and clear as soon as he tried to get out of the bed. Where the hell had that come from? Well, he _had_ gone through a wooden door when he was shot… Yeah, that made sense. Dean was still surprised to see that there was blood on the sheets where he had been lying though. He quickly drew the sheets up to hide the spots. No need for Sam to see that. Before Sam got out of the shower, Dean gathered up the first aid supplies he figured that he would need, rolling them into his clothes so as not to alarm Sam.

Sam came huffing out of the shower, grabbing some clean clothes and starting to get dressed.

"Can you believe the gall of that man?"

"Huh?"

"Dean, he doesn't call us or answer our calls for months and then he calls to tell us he can't talk? What kind of bullshit is that? Did he ask you how you were? He told me that the thing that killed Jess is the thing that killed Mom. I _have_ to be in on this fight, dude. We have to go after him."

"It's not safe right now. We don't even know where Dad is. Look Sam, I'm sure he'll call us again when he's closer or it's safe. For now, we just gotta do our job. Why don't you grab us some coffee while I shower, and then we can get on the road."

Sam's eyebrows knit together and he glowered at his brother.

Here we go, thought Dean. And then suddenly, Sam just shrugged.

"Fine. You're right. There's no point – we still don't know where Dad is because the bastard never told us. I'll go get your damn coffee." And with that he stormed out of the motel.

Dean sighed and made his way stiffly into the bathroom. There was no denying it now. He felt like shit. He'd expected that his chest would be sore today, but really, his back felt a lot worse. He was surprised that it hadn't hurt more before he went to sleep. He guessed he'd been distracted by the pain in his chest. Afterall, those wounds had rock salt embedded in them.

Pulling the tshirt back over his head hurt worse than slipping it on had. Twisting around and trying to see his back in the bathroom mirror was pretty pointless, but he could see some gashes and a lot of bruising. First, he poured holy water over his chest and his back. There wasn't anything inherently supernatural about the wounds, but you couldn't be too careful. Next came the hydrogen peroxide and alcohol. That hurt like a bitch!

Finally, Dean climbed stiffly into the shower. The hot water felt good and his muscles finally started to relax. After drying off, Dean put some antibiotic cream on the worst of the wounds on his chest and covered them with gauze. There really was no way, short of enlisting Sam's help, and there was no damn way he was doing that, to get anything on his back. Sulky Sam was enough to deal with right now; he just couldn't cope with guilty Sam too.

Dean dressed in the bathroom. When he finally emerged, Sam was working away on the computer with two steaming cups of coffee on the table beside him.

"Thanks Sam," Dean said gratefully taking one of the cups as he passed by to gather up his belongings. "Find anything on those names yet?"

"Huh? What names? Oh, those names. No. That's your gig – yours and Dad's…"

"Okaaaaay. So, let me get this straight, you're just not going to help?"

"Do you really need my help Dean?"

"Fine, then. You drive and I'll do the research, geek boy."

Just this once, Dean was secretly pleased not to have to drive. It would be much easier not to have his extremely sore back pressed into the driver's seat. As researcher extraordinaire, he could slump unobtrusively in the passenger seat.

He still wasn't quite sure how it had happened but one minute he was explaining the case to Sam and the next he was driving as fast as he could down a dark road _without _Sam. He knew he was being stupid, but he hurt and that never helped him to think straight. Deep down, Dean knew that it wasn't just the physical pain he was in right now. It was bad enough when Dad ditched him the first time. It all added up: Dad just felt that Dean was a liability. On another level, Dean knew that even if Sam found their Dad, the two of them wouldn't last two hours before they got in a fight and one stormed off, regardless of how much Sam thought they shared a common purpose.

Dean sighed. And then cursed. Since when did breathing hurt? Somehow or another he was going to have to do something about his back. His chest had settled down to a dull and manageable throb, but his back was really starting to take up the slack. Must be sitting behind the wheel…

Damn you, Sammy! So much for getting help cleaning out the wounds on his back or with the driving. Well, at least this time he'd beaten Sam to the punch. Dean had left before Sam could leave him.

Shit! What the hell had he done? He'd left his brother in the dark, on the side of some god-forsaken highway. Well, damn it, Sam said himself that that's what he wanted, so he could just suck it up.

By the time Dean got to Burkitsville, he was not feeling at the top of his game. He'd managed to change the bandages on his chest and pour some more of what he'd come to regard as his own special concoction of alcohol, hydrogen peroxide and holy water, down his back. It really felt like something was embedded in his back.

"Too bad, sucks out loud, suck it up," Dean tried to pull himself together to meet the lovely folks of this quaint little town (_quaint? Who the hell uses the word quaint?_).

By the time they threw him into that god-forsaken cellar, Dean really was feeling under the weather. Landing heavily on his right side, Dean was sure he heard a couple of unhealthy cracks before he was plunged back into oblivion.

Dean was cold, sore, and just plain generally uncomfortable. His head was pounding. The left side from where the rifle butt knocked him out the first time and the right side from landing pretty much on his head coming into his lovely new "digs". He groaned as he tried to roll over to get up at least into a sitting position so that he could assess his situation. When he moved his head though, he was overwhelmed by nausea.

Dean impressed even himself with the speed at which he got to his knees to avoid throwing up on himself. He was less that impressed with the results, however. How could someone throw up so much when he hadn't even really had anything to eat? The heaving was definitely not helping anything: his head pounded harder, his chest and ribs screamed against this additional abuse, and his back was almost causing him to lose consciousness again.

Finally, it seemed to be over. Dean coughed (lightly) and spit to clear his mouth and throat. Okie dokey, time for inventory. Tossing his cookies probably meant a concussion – note to self – DON'T get knocked out multiple times in ONE day. Ribs? Probably not broken but definitely deeply bruised and quite possibly cracked. Chest? Still seemed to be on the mend. That should make Sam happy. The wound he inflicted was the only one healing. Legs? Cautiously optimistically, fine. Arms? Again, seemed ok, unless, they need to be moved or used 'cuz of that whole attached to the back and chest thing…. Back? Oh yeah. There was a reason he had been leaving that one to the end. Nasty. And hurt like a bitch.

Well, too bad. Time to get up, escape, and kill that fugly bastard.

Well, he was on his feet and suddenly, he had company.

He thought his ribs, back, and chest hurt _before_ he'd had his wrists tied to a tree over his head….

"I thought you said that you had a plan?" Emily's voice was beginning to sound a little strained.

He could hardly blame her. They'd been tied up for an hour or so now and it was pretty much dark. His natural instinct to protect everyone but himself was in full force.

"Don't worry sweetheart. I've got it covered."

The bitch of it was that he _should_ have been able to get himself and Emily out of this. But, and this was a big but at the moment, he couldn't get up enough strength to break the ropes that held him. His ribs and chest were just too damn sore and had left him about as weak as a damn teddy bear. On top of that his back, which was really sore at this point, was now pushed up against a very rough damn tree. So, after all this time, all he'd really managed to do was burst open some of the sores on his back and bloody his wrists from the friction of the rope. Yeah. This was turning into a fricken' great couple of days…

And then, Sammy arrived!

Emily was safely on the bus. Sam had said he _wanted_ to stay. They were what was left of their family. Dean closed the door to the Impala and pulled out of the bus terminal parking lot.

"Uh Sam?"

"Dean?"

"Want me to find a room?"

"Sure. I could use a decent night's sleep…" Sam looked at his brother. _Really_ looked. Dean didn't often suggest they take it easy and hole up for the day even if they'd been up all night.

Sam had taken in the new bruising on Dean's face when he'd rescued him and Emily from the orchard. Well, at least, he'd seen it when the three of them stopped for something to eat at the first all night truck stop they found. As per usual, Dean insisted he was fine. He had been shivering a bit, but that could easily be attributed to being tied up in an orchard for the better part of the night. Emily was shaking a bit too. When Sam thought about, he couldn't really remember whether Dean had eaten anything. He'd ordered some soup… Also not Dean-like.

Sam looked at Dean. Damn it! He looked like crap. Now what?

"Dean!"

"WHAT!" Dean jumped about a foot at Sammy's bark and inwardly cringed at the pain to his back, chest and side.

"Dude, are you alright? You seriously look like crap. You're sweating. Do you have a fever or something?"

"Look, just 'cuz I let you have a little chick-flick moment, doesn't mean I want to have them every five minutes. I'm good, dude. Just a little tired. Look, there's a motel up ahead. Let's call it a night, er, day?"

Sam sighed. He wasn't buying it, but whatever was bothering Dean, a good night's sleep would do them both a world of good.

For once, Dean let Sam check them in while he sat in the car. If the truth be known, he did feel like crap. Actually, feeling like crap would be an improvement at this point. So much so, that Sam was checking them in because Dean was pretty sure that he had one trip left in him to get him from the car to one destination – and he'd prefer that destination to be a bed.

"Dean!"

"What?"

"God! How many times are we going to have this conversation? I said we are in room 7, like three times. It's a good thing that you aren't trying to drive any further. Are you sure your head's ok? You sure act like you have a hell of a concussion."  
"Yeah, okay, so maybe I've got a bit of a headache…"

Dean pulled up outside the room. He grabbed his duffle on the way by the trunk and snagging the key from Sam, left Sam to get his own bag and the bag of weapons they always kept with them – just in case. Dean let himself in. He briefly considered hitting the shower, but his knees started to betray him, so he opted for a face plant on the nearest bed.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was insistent.

"Wha?" Dean mumbled into his pillow.

"Don't you want the shower? Maybe take your jacket off?"

"Later. Tired now. Sleep."

"Whatever, dude." Sam just shook his head and grabbing some clean clothes disappeared into the shower.

Dean seemed to be sleeping when Sam came back out. He had to admit, he was pretty wiped out. It had been a long couple of days. He couldn't help but smile when he looked at Dean's sleeping form. Now that it was really his decision to stay, he felt a lot better about it. Before climbing into his own bed, he stopped to take Dean's boots off and throw a blanket over him. Sam had drawn the curtains and turned out the lights, so he couldn't see the sheen of sweat that covered Dean's face or the way the bruising stood out in stark contrast to the pallor of Dean's face.

Dean woke with a start not long after Sam finally fell asleep. Crap! He hurt like hell, but he totally needed a bathroom break. Shit! Even before he moved, he knew it was the last thing he wanted to do. How could he even have to go? It's not like there should be anything in him.

When they were at the diner, he had unwisely ordered something to eat. Not that he would usually put soup in that category, but he'd been so cold when they got there that he thought it and a cup or six of coffee would help to warm him up. He'd made it most of the way through the soup before excusing himself. He's just made it into the bathroom when he was sick – again. Getting to be a really bad habit. Given what it was doing to his back, chest, and ribs. That was going to be the new chorus for the new Dean Winchester smash hit – back, chest, and ribs… after splashing water on his face, Dean had sauntered back to Sam and Emily who seemed to have hit it off.

Back to the present, and he really couldn't deny that he needed to get to the bathroom. Biting his lower lip to keep from screaming, groaning, or any other loud, dead giveaway noises, Dean managed to get to his feet. He swayed precariously until the room stopped playing tiltawhirl.

If he'd had anything in his stomach, he was pretty sure that he would be decorating the walls with it right about now. Moving like a ninety year old man, Dean managed to totter – damn! He just _didn't_ totter – into the bathroom. He tried to avoid the mirror, but he had to go right past it.

Shit! He looked like he felt – maybe worse. The left side of his face was a mass of bruising and it stood out starkly because the rest of his face was ghostly white. Sweat was streaming down his face. His mouth was open slightly as he gasped and wheezed shallowly for breath.

Dean managed to do what he'd come for and do his fly back up. He didn't see his face in the mirror again, however, because he'd only just turned to the door when his body finally said "Dude! Enough is enough!" and he went down for the count.

* * *

A/N: I think this has stood up pretty well – I've made some very minor corrections to plot holes that jumped out and swatted me on the back of the head – otherwise this is pretty much exactly as it first appeared…. So? Likey? More?


	2. Starting the Healing Process

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing and never will as I am totally in Kripke's debt for the loan of his boys…

**A/N:** This was my very first attempt at fanfiction. It is complete, so I'll post as time allows. Why, you may well ask, am I posting this here and now? (As it was posted elsewhere, _then_)… This is in answer to Mad Server's query as to where I got a certain nickname… I leave it up to all of you to determine what I am Queen of by the time we get to the end of this little "bridge."

**Spoilers** for Asylum and Scarecrow acts as a bridge between Asylum and Faith…

**Warning:** Things are going to get rather gruesome over the next few chapters. I wouldn't recommend reading this while eating…

* * *

Starting the Healing Process

Something woke Sam. That something was the sound of Dean making his way to the bathroom, but something was off. Instead of the usual silence of Dean's passage anywhere, Sam was sure he could detect a definite tottering. Tottering? Random – where did _that_ come from. God, he must really be tired. Sam started to drift again as the door to the bathroom closed, and he vaguely heard the usual bathroom noises – not like he was gonna perk up to put that on stereo. He had just about drifted off again when he heard a distinctly _un_-bathroom noise. Actually three noises – a gasp, a groan, and - the most un-bathroom-like – a loud thump. Sam sat straight up in bed.

"Dean?"

No answer.

"Dean!"

Louder elicited no better response – shit! Sam was at the door to the bathroom. Shit! Locked.

"Dean! Open the damn door, man! Are you okay?" Oh yeah, how stupid was that question? None of the noises pre-supposed any level of okayness. And really if he was ok, he'd probably open the door or at least tell Sam to get out of his personal space. Dean was all about personal space. Especially in the bathroom.

"Dean! Dude! Open the door!" Sam jiggled the doorknob. Yep, really effective man, get a grip! Lock picking tools. Hurry up. Sam's thoughts finally started to go in a more useful direction. Luckily, motel rooms are designed to have easily pickable bathroom locks 'cuz kids are always locking themselves in by mistake. "Must have had Dean in mind," Sam huffed as the lock clicked.

Dean was just starting to stir. Stir might have been too strong a word. Twitch? Spasm? Shudder? Writhe? Sam was so stunned at the sight of Dean's position on the floor he just froze for a moment. Dean was curled on his left side with the right side of his face twisted to the floor. His breathing seemed laboured – but that could be a result of the whole unnaturally twisted head thing. Dean looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower – his short cropped hair was plastered to his head and looked about two shades darker that normal. This only enhanced the pallor of his skin. The bruising on his face was livid against the white of his face. Sweat rolled down his face. The other dead giveaway that Dean hadn't slipped getting out of the shower (other than the no shower noises) was that Dean was still fully clothed – he even still had his jacket on. Sam finally realized that the motion coming from Dean wasn't waking up; it was shaking.

Sam dropped to his knees next to Dean's head. Gently, he rested his hand on Dean's face. God. He was burning up. Jesus, Dean. Could you ever share anything? Sam tried gently patting Dean's cheek. Nothing.

"Dean, man, ya gotta wake up now." Sam was starting to panic. "Dean!" the pats turned into slaps and finally got a response – pretty much the one he was expecting.

"Dude. Personal space," Dean cracked one eye so Sam could see just a glint of hazel and the words were like a whispered breath.

The line on Sam's forehead deepened. This didn't go unnoticed by Dean even in his current less than 100 state. He cleared his throat. Winchester rule number…., um…, whatever (he was having trouble remembering his complex numbering system)… don't scare Sammy ever.

"S'ok, Sam. Just felt a bit dizzy and I guess I went down for the count." Dean tried to smile, but it came out like more of a grimace.

"Dude, those of us who are actually ok don't make a habit of hanging out on the bathroom floor."

"S'not a habit, Sammy. Just tryin' it out." Dean's eyes started to slide shut again.

"Dean! Wake up! You absolutely canNOT go back to sleep – or re-pass out or whatever the hell you are doing!"

Dean jerked in response to Sam's yell and groaned and winced in response to his own movement.

"C'mon Dean. Time for an inventory." Sam did his best to imitate their father's best drill sergeant tone. He knew he had to get a complete rundown on Dean's condition if he was going to figure out what the hell was going on with his brother.

"Ok. Just, help me up, Sam" Dean's voice was weak and breathy and was really pissing him off.

This was not going to help the whole don't worry Sam vibe. Dean's arms scrabbled weakly against the bathroom floor as he tried to push himself into a sitting position. Sam frowned and shook his head. Damn, his brother could be just about the biggest stupid stubborn ass out there.

Without knowing anything about where Dean was hurting, Sam just grabbed his arms and tried to pull him upright. Unfortunately, that set off the whole chest, ribs, back chorus which Dean had been blissfully unaware of for the short time that he had been unconscious, and he cried out. And that hurt his ribs more. And that made him sway as he came almost upright which caused Sam to grab him in kind of a hug which sent pain shooting through his chest and his BACK and then Dean did go limp in Sam's arms.

"Shit! Dean!" Sam didn't think he could get more worried. He was wrong. Not only had merely touching Dean caused him to pass out, Sam couldn't believe the heat radiating off his brother's body. He needed to get this fever down, but he also desperately needed to know what was causing it. He gently eased Dean to a sitting position and leaned Dean up against the bathroom wall.

Dean came instantly and fully awake with a choked off scream and flung himself forward onto his hands, coming to rest with his head down and panting shallowly.

"What the hell Dean?"

"My back is sore, Sam."  
"Kinda noticed you seemed uncomfortable. Care to tell me what happened? And any other injuries that might account for your passing out when I touched you? Come on Dean, I need to know it all if I'm gonna help you."

Dean sighed. He was falling down on the job again – he couldn't help laughing at his own little joke – He was supposed to look after Sammy. Not the other way around.

"So not funny, Dude. Spill."

"Ok, so my back is a little sore. And I think I might have cracked a couple ribs when my good friends in Burkitsville showed me into my luxurious accommodations. And, ah, I've still got a bit of a headache from said entrance and, um, also getting up close and personal with the non-business end of the sheriff's rifle. Though I got to tell you, Sammy, for the non-business end it pretty much totally got the job done." Dean chuckled again. Damn, he was just the funniest guy he knew. Funny he didn't seem to have more friends…

"Ok. First thing, let's get you out of these clothes, so I can clean up anything that looks like it might be causing an infection…" Sam was more than a little overwhelmed at Dean's list of injuries. He was also stunned that Dean was actually sharing and that scared him.

Sam placed his hands on Dean's shoulders to grasp his jacket and flannel shirt so that he could simply slip them down off Dean's shoulders and arms. That way all Dean really had to do was straighten his arms and bring them slightly behind his back. Even this small motion elicited a small gasp from Dean though. Sam furrowed his brow at that. The only muscles he should be using would be his chest, but that could set the ribs off.

Dean had managed to get himself close enough to the toilet that he could balance himself upright without having his front, right side, or back in any danger of touching anything. Because right now that would be just about the worst thing he could imagine. And then Sammy wanted to take off his t-shirt.

"Son of a Bitch, Sammy!" Sam had managed to get the t-shirt over Dean's head without really raising his arms, but that meant the offending material dragged rather forcefully against the sides of his head. And Dean didn't have a side _without _a head wound just at the moment.

"Son of a Bitch, Dean!" Sammy breathed when he got a look at the full glory that was Dean Winchester's torso.

Dean's chest still had a few rather dilapidated and worse for wear bandages left on it, and it was a mass of colour: blues, blacks, dark and unhealthy-looking greens. His entire right side wrapped around from his chest in most of the same hues. But what really took Sam's breath away was Dean's back. There were clearly several "things" embedded in it. It too was a serious conglomeration of welts and bruises. Sam's greatest concern, however, was that several of the wounds on Dean's back were clearly infected. Many of the foreign objects were surrounded by large, pus-filled abscesses.

"Damn it Dean! What the hell? How did this happen?" Sam's concern was blinding him to the obvious answer to his questions. "We've got to get you to a hospital. You've got abscesses that need to be lanced and open sores on your back that need to be disinfected."

"NO! No hospital." Dean was adamant. Dean winced and huffed as the force of his statement caused pain to flare pretty much all over his body. Well, ok, maybe not the soles of his feet.

"What? Why not Dean?"

"Sammy, look at my chest. Gunshot, remember? I can't go to the hospital without attracting a lot of attention. Attention we don't need. I'm supposed to be a _dead_ serial killer. And what's dead, ought to stay that way…" Dean's head was killing him and the room was spinning again. Talking was really not helping him to feel any better. In fact…………

Dean suddenly hurled himself towards the open toilet bowl, and well, … _hurled_. This really wasn't fair, Dean thought as he alternated between retching and gasping at the pain the retching caused.

Sam tried to steady and comfort his brother by grasping his shoulders. He was consumed with guilt. How could he have already forgotten the gunshot wound? The gunshot wound that _he_ had caused. When he shot his own brother. Shit. Of course, up until he had removed Dean's shirt, Sam had been blissfully unaware that there even _was_ a gunshot wound. God, would he ever learn? He'd asked Dean if he was ok and Dean had said yeah – more or less. At the time, Sam had been more worried about the emotional wounds he had left. He knew that Dean was denying how much Sam had hurt him by what he'd said. But Sam hadn't seen any indications of _physical _pain. How could he have missed that? Easy, Sam thought. Dean had long ago mastered the art of keeping the mask in place at all costs, no matter what the damage. Keep up that damn stoic Winchester front – until you collapsed in a puddle of your own blood.

Sam sighed. Dean finished retching and spit into the toilet. He leaned weakly against it.

"Dean. God. I'm so sorry. Look, your chest doesn't look that bad, but your back is a mess. What the hell happened to your back? We've got to get a doctor to look at it, man. There's stuff stuck in it..," Sam's voice was as gentle as he could make it. He knew that would get him further with his brother.

"No. There's no way for anyone to look at my back without taking off my shirt and seeing my _front_. So, no hospital, clinic, doctor, whatever." Dean's head hung down but his voice carried the strength of his conviction. Sam knew that Dean was right about the kind of attention a gunshot wound would elicit. It had to; it was the law. Sweat was trickling down Dean's face and he was trembling so hard Sam wasn't sure how he was staying as upright as he was.

"Ok." Sam gave in reluctantly. "But we've got to get those abscesses lanced and cleaned out and get your fever down. I'll ask you again, Dean. What happened to your back. I have to know what I'm going to be digging out of it." Both boys winced at Sam's use of the word "dig".

"The door."

"Random – door what?"

"The door did this to my back."

"What door?"  
"The door to Ellicot's secret room." Dean's voice was close to a whisper and Sam had to lean in to hear him. He wished that he hadn't. He saw again, his brother flying through the air after he shot him – _shot him_ – crashing through the hidden, wooden door. But now when he saw it, he wasn't blinded by supernatural rage. Of course. You couldn't expect someone to fly through a door and walk away completely unharmed. Unless you were Sam and it was your invincible older brother who you could shoot at will and never break his tough exterior shell. Ok. So not the time to be wallowing in angst. Dean really did need him and he would be damned if he didn't get his shit in a pile and pull Dean out of this mess.

"Ok, Dude. I'm a little tired of sitting on this damn bathroom floor. How about you? Care for a change of scenery?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Dean attempted his cocky smile – he managed to get one corner of his mouth up.

"We are going to talk about the need to share certain information, Dean, but for now, let's just deal with what we've got here. Is there anything else that you're hiding? Do I need to take your pants off?"

"Personal space, Sammy. There is nothing in my pants that you need to concern yourself with – at least if you want to stay healthy – and really, one of us should."

"Alright. Here's the drill as I see it. I'm going to have to redress the wounds on your chest. Those abscesses are going to need to be lanced and cauterized – you know I can't just stitch them 'cuz they're already infected. I need to wrap up your ribs and clean and wrap the wounds on your wrists. And last, but far from least, we have to get your fever down. Am I missing anything?"

"Don't think so," Dean muttered. His eyes were starting to droop again. It was taking an awful lot of energy just to keep his eyelids open. He'd honestly forgotten that his wrists were pretty much raw meat from trying to free himself from the ropes tying him to the tree in the orchard.

"Think we can get you into the other room while I gather up what we'll need?" Sam bent in towards his brother. He increased the volume of his voice slightly, though, when he saw that Dean was in danger of slipping out of consciousness again.

"Dean! Stay with me!"

"Ya. Ya Sammy, with you all the way." Dean exaggerated blinking his eyes to get them to open up.

"I'm gonna grab you under your arms, Dean and help you up. I'll do my best not to grab either your chest or back. Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, Samantha."

"On three. One, two, three." And Sam heaved Dean to his feet. Dean to his credit, tried to get his legs to obey him and support his weight. He tried to help Sam, and he tried not to cry out as pain pierced his body from almost every possible direction.

Sam struggled to get his brother back to the bedroom where he could at least make sure he was warm and slightly more comfortable. Dean's legs buckled several times on the short journey from bathroom to bed and each time he sagged in Sam's arms his breath hitched as he tried not to cry out from the pain the added contact caused him. Sam managed to get Dean to the bed and laid him gently on his left side. He quickly covered him with the blankets and returned to the bathroom to grab some cold wet towels for his head. He also snagged a glass of water and fished the ibuprofen out of the first aid kit.

Sam was immediately struck by just how pale Dean was. His eyes were unnaturally bright, however. Fever bright, Sam realized.

"Think you can keep a couple of these down? It's all we've got for the pain right now, Dude."

"I'll give it a shot. It's ok Sam. I'll be ok." Dean missed Sam's wince at his choice of words as he struggled into something like a semi-sitting position to get the pills down. Whether they'd stay down was anybody's guess. Dean lay back down with a wince and a sigh. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the room to stop spinning before he lost the pills. He really, really wanted to keep them down.

Sam started to gather all of the tools he was going to need. Alcohol. Dean's zippo. Gauze. Hydrogen peroxide. Antibiotic cream. The scalpel and tweezers. Sam was always struck by how screwed up it was that they had scalpels and tweezers in their first aid kit. Sam noticed that they were pretty low on most of their supplies. Then he realized, that an awful lot of their supplies were currently on Dean's chest. Sam also boiled some water in the small portable kettle they carried with them. He carefully laid all of the supplies out before gently waking Dean from the light doze he'd drifted into.

"Dean? I want to get you into a chair. You obviously can't lie on your stomach while I work on your back, so I think that's our best option. You with me?"

"Yeah Sammy. Totally with the program." Dean didn't open his eyes and was pretty much back to sleep the moment he stopped speaking.

"Dean!" Sam jolted Dean awake. He hated to do it, but he knew that compared to what he was about to do, if he had woken Dean by punching him, it would seem a gentle kindness. Dean groaned as he pushed up off the bed. Sam had already positioned the chair next to the small side table where he'd laid out all his supplies. He helped Dean to sit backwards on the chair, straddling it. That way no part of his torso was actually touching the chair and Sam had easy access to his entire back. Sweat was coursing down his entire body and he was shaking with chills. That wasn't going to make this any easier.

Dean swayed slightly as he straddled the chair. His hands gripped the back of the chair. His eyes fell on Sam's carefully laid out supplies – nah, his boy laid shit out meticulously - It was all there. And Dean knew without a doubt that this was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch…

* * *

A/N: Any guesses yet for that nickname? You should get it by the end of the next chapter for sure…. I wasn't too hard on Dean was I?


	3. The Actual Lancing Never Feels Good

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing and never will as I am totally in Kripke's debt for the loan of his boys…

**A/N:** This was my very first attempt at fanfiction. It is complete, so I'll post as time allows. Why, you may well ask, am I posting this here and now? (As it was posted elsewhere, _then_)… This is in answer to Mad Server's query as to where I got a certain nickname… I leave it up to all of you to determine what I am Queen of by the time we get to the end of this little "bridge."

**Spoilers** for Asylum and Scarecrow acts as a bridge between Asylum and Faith…

**Warning:** I've been told this is a particularly gruesome chapter. I wouldn't recommend reading this while eating…

* * *

The Actual Lancing _Never_ Feels Good

Sam took a deep breath. This was really not how he had pictured spending the evening – slicing and dicing his brother's back. But the damn abscesses had to be lanced, drained and disinfected.

Sam wasn't sure where to begin. He could begin with the lancing or with the open sores that obviously contained some part of the old wooden door. While trying to make his decision, he moved the scalpel from the boiling water where it was being sterilized to the shallow container filled with alcohol to complete the sterilization process.

He decided that he had better deal with the pus-filled abscesses first. It wouldn't do for pus to drain into the other wounds if he'd already dealt with them.

"Uh – Dude?"

"What, Dean?"

"You planning on doing this anytime soon? Cuz, seriously dude, if you're gonna take much longer, I'd rather be taking a nap about now." Dean was barely staying upright as he straddled the chair. His head was more or less hanging down; his breathing was as shallow as he could make it to spare his ribs. He'd pretty much decided that he'd underestimated how damaged they were. Yeah, at least one was either broken or just really badly cracked. How the hell were cracked and broken different anyway?

"Just coming up with a plan of attack, Dean. Think you could stay a little more, ah, stationary for me?"

Dean was swaying slightly on the chair. His eyes were half closed and his eyelashes brushed his cheeks more frequently and for longer periods of time. He really was on the verge of falling asleep – or passing out was more like it, Sam thought. Sam also noticed that Dean wasn't sweating quite so much, though he was also still wracked by chills periodically. Crap! Sam thought – it was better for a fever to sweat.

"Ok. I think I better take care of the abscesses and the pus first," Sam explained.

"Way too much information, Sam." Dean gagged slightly but managed to avoid throwing up. So not going there, Dean thought. Ribs, back, and chest chorus were totally against revisiting hurley-town. "Just get it done." Dean's knuckles grew white as he gripped the chair back in anticipation.

Sam carefully drew the scalpel through the skin covering one of the abscesses. It burst with a soft pop and pus flowed down Dean's back. Both Sam and Dean gagged.

_Ok._ Dean thought. _Stings a bit – understatement! - but pretty manageable –shit, shit, shit!!_ Sam was "gently" squeezing the pus and fluids from the wound. _More than stings –_

"Sonuvabitch, Sam!!" Dean swayed sideways somewhat precariously. _Ok. If that's as bad as it gets, I got it, _Dean thought, but when Sam inserted the tweezers into the hole to begin extracting the wood in the wound, Dean managed one strangled cry and slumped forward into the back of the chair. Unfortunately, that meant his chest wounds connected forcefully with the chair.

"OOOWWW!" Dean flung himself backwards into Sam, the wounds on his back connecting forcefully with Sam. Another strangled cry and Dean went limp in Sam's arms. Under different circumstances, this whole ping-pong thing would have been funny.

"Well," Sam sighed, "That went well." God, Dean's sarcasm was totally catching….

"Dean? Dean. Dean!" Sam gently insisted that Dean make his way back to the land of the living – no doubt Dean would make a crack about the living dead.

Dean groaned and his eyes slowly blinked open – well, mostly open.

"Dean? Think you can sit up by yourself for a minute? I've got an idea."

"Dude. I've been sitting up on my own for over two decades. I got it." Dean was still swaying precariously. Sam left one hand on his brother's shoulder to help steady him. Damn. Sam cursed softly. The fever was going nowhere, except maybe up. Sam snagged a pillow off the bed and jammed it between his brother and the back of the chair. Damn it. Why hadn't he thought of this in the first place.

"Ok, Dean. Just lean into the pillow…" Dean slumped forward. His lips were parted slightly and his eyes were drooping shut. _Just pass out already_, Sam thought, silently willing his brother some relief from the pain. But, no. Dean could never do anything the easy way, right? More like he just never caught a break.

Sam pursed his lips and frowned slightly. He sighed and went back to work extracting the wood from his brother's back. Dean hissed and growled as Sam worked, but by pressing himself into the pillow, he managed to stay upright and reasonably still.

"Got it!" Sam cried as he withdrew a large piece of what used to be a door. It was hard to tell who was more relieved – Sam or Dean. Sam immediately went to work on the next abscess. A small, tight smile grazed his lips as he faintly detected his brother humming Metallica. He decided he would do all the lancing and extracting, then use the alcohol and hydrogen peroxide to irrigate the wounds, then cauterize the wounds that were largest and had been most infected, and finally apply the antibiotic cream. It was going to be a long night.

When Sam got to the third abscess, he knew he was going to do more than just gag. Luckily Sam had brought the waste basket over before he started so that he could discard used pieces of gauze. Little did he realize that he'd be discarding his last meal too.

Dean groaned when he heard Sam start throwing up. _Oh, Sammy, didja havta…._ He felt the saliva flood into his mouth, and barely got out, "Move over!" before he joined his brother over the basket, their heads close together to avoid missing the target. Both boys were panting slightly, and spit in unison before weakly returning to upright positions.

"Dude, there are just some things that I don't want to do as a family."

"Hey, I was there first!"

"Whatever. Are you gonna be ok, Sammy?"

_Trust Dean to worry about me losing my lunch when he looks like he went about twelve rounds with a psychotic wendigo with an anger management problem._ Sam sighed. "Yeah Dean. I'll be fine. You ready for me to keep going?"

"Ready as I ever will be." Dean pressed his chest back into the pillow. "How many are left?"

"Um, well, four more are abscessed and then there are about six splinters." Sam mirrored Dean's grimace even though he couldn't see his brother's.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Maybe you should get the extra trash can from the bathroom. I don't think I can do the twist an lunge again…"

"Sure."

Sam retrieved the other bin and placed it so that Dean could easily reach it if he needed to. Frankly, Sam couldn't imagine that Dean had anything left to bring up. Certainly, the damn ibuprophen would now be gone. He'd give Dean some more as soon as he was done.

Sam worked as quickly as he could to remove all of the splinters. The pain was probably the only thing keeping Dean from passing out completely – _That's ironic_, Sam thought.

Both boys made use of their baskets again. As soon as Sam was finished extracting the splinters, he quickly grabbed the baskets and rinsed them in the washroom. He didn't want the smell setting them off again.

Sam then carefully cleansed the wounds with the alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. He concentrated on the wounds with the hydrogen peroxide and they hissed and foamed white – not unlike Dean's hiss of pain and pale face… Sam took the opportunity to wipe Dean's entire back down with the alcohol. Sam thought that would have the added bonus of helping to reduce Dean's fever as well.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?"

"How are you doing? How's the head?"

"S'k, Sammy." Dean's words were slightly slurred, and Sam knew this was not a good sign. Dean was also shuddering periodically, but he was no longer sweating at all. Sam rummaged quickly in the first aid kit and finally found the thermometer. He stuck it in Dean's ear.

Unfortunately, Dean didn't see it coming…

"Sonuvabitch!" Dean almost fell off the chair and was definitely more alert.

"Sorry. Need your temperature." Sam waited impatiently and watched as Dean slumped closer to unconsciousness. Finally, the damn thermometer beeped.

"Shit."

"How high?"

"102.9"

"Told you I was hot shit, Sam…"

"You should have been a stand up, Dude. Oh wait, I forgot; you _can't _stand up at the moment."

"Could if I wanted to."

"Sure, Dean, keep thinking that. Are you ready for the next part?"

"What if I say no?" Dean's voice dropped to almost a whisper and the smile fell out of it.

"You know I gotta do this. We have to stop the infection, and we don't have any antibiotics." Sam's voice was strained. He sooo did not want to do what he knew he had to do next. If lancing the abscesses was painful, this would be excruciating.

_Shit! This life was just so screwed up. Normal people could just go to the hospital. Hell. Normal people didn't end up with splinters in their backs because they'd been blown through a door by a chest full of rock salt blasted their by their brother. Rambling. Get it together Sam. Dean needs you._

"Sam? Think you could maybe step out and grab a bottle of Jack before you get started?"

"Can't do it, Dean. Head wound, remember?"

"Shit. Ok. Let's just get it done." Dean was barely keeping his eyes open and his breathing was shallow. He was barely managing to stay in the chair. He was doing his best to keep the mask in place to spare Sam, but it was getting harder and harder to hold it together.

Sam held the scalpel over the zippo, heating it up. His hands were shaking badly. He'd never had to do this; he'd seen Dean do it to their father once and he'd seen Dad do it to Dean twice. All three times they'd been caught far from help with no immediate access to antibiotics and a raging infection staring them in the face. The heated blade should seal the wound and kill the infection. Killing the infection should bring the fever down. But Sam didn't know if he could do it.

"Dean?" Sam's voice shook slightly.

"S'ok, Sammy. You gotta do it. I'll be ok. It only hurts for a minute," Dean murmured the reassurance to Sam.

_Liar_, he thought to himself. _You know it's gonna hurt like a sonuvabitch and for a lot longer than a freakin minute. God, I hope I can keep it together – this is gonna kill the poor kid….._

Sam drew in a deep breath and drew the heated scalpel through the hole left by the first abscess. Dean screamed and slumped forward unconscious – finally and thankfully. The room was filled with the smell of burning flesh. Sam dove for his basket, surprised that there could be anything left. As quickly as he could, Sam re-disinfected the blade and held it back over the flame.

_Shit!_ He wasn't fast enough. Dean began to regain consciousness before Sam was ready to tackle the second abscess. They repeated the process – Dean screamed and passed out. Sam managed not to hurl and had the blade reheated before Dean woke up. He drew the blade through wound number three. Dean woke up and screamed.

_What the hell!_ Sam thought.

And so it went. Dean awake, passed out. Dean passed out, woke up. Finally, it was done. Dean was on an out cycle as Sam finished by slathering antibiotic cream over all the wounds. Dean didn't even wake up as Sam took his temperature. 103. Well, could be worse. It was up, but not by much. Dean seemed to be fairly stationary, so Sam tidied up some of the garbage and emptied the barfing basket as he'd lovingly christened it. Then he took a facecloth and dampened it with cold water and alcohol and wiped Dean's face down with it.

"Dean? Hey man, you with me?" Sam bent and leant in close to his brother's face. He had a steadying hand on his shoulder to try to guide him gently back to consciousness.

"Mmm. Wh' time is it?" Dean wasn't really quite awake yet.

"Dean? Let's try to get you to the bed. Do you think you could drink some water and take some ibuprophen now?" Sam's voice was quiet but insistent.

"Yeah." Dean felt like he was under water or buried alive. He could barely focus on Sam's voice, pulling him up out of the darkness. As he regained consciousness, he suddenly realized why he didn't want to and inhaled sharply.

Goddamit! When was he going to stop doing that? Such a bad idea! Breathing bad. Ribs hurt. Chest hurt. And now the chorus had been joined by a staccato knife wielding section in his back. So not cool. He did manage to choke down three ibuprophen – he hoped they would stick around a little longer than the last set – and a couple sips of water.

"Dean? Let's try for the bed."

_Right. Trying to focus here Sammy._ Dean was pretty sure he was still thinking in complete sentences, but not much was making it out of his mouth. The thing that always worried Sam the most was when his brother went quiet. Dean didn't do quiet.

Sam clasped Dean under the arms as gently as he could and Dean tried his best to help Sam by straightening his legs and willing his body to go in the direction he was indicating. Dean slumped on the bed, eyelashes brushing his cheeks, eyes barely open.

"Ok, Dean. How about you lie on your left side? That way, I can clean up your chest and wrists and you can just go to sleep for a bit if you like."

"Yeah. 'K." Dean was more or less already asleep Sam concluded and pushed his brother down on the bed. Sam quickly and efficiently cleaned the wounds on his brother's chest and wrists and then covered the wounds with the antibiotic cream. He lightly wrapped Dean's wrists, but there wasn't an easy way to cover the wounds on his chest.

It was Sam's turn for the breath to hitch painfully in his chest. It hurt every time he looked at Dean's chest. And Dean looked so young when he slept. His cheeks were unnaturally rosy as were his slightly parted full lips. He'd long since stopped humming and was breathing shallowly but evenly.

Sam gently eased the sheets and blankets up over his brother's prone form tenting them slightly so they didn't touch either his back or chest. That would serve the dual purpose of keeping his brother warm and his accusing chest covered. Sam rinsed out the towel with more cold water and soaked it with alcohol. Pretty much the last of the alcohol. He'd have to slip out for more.

Returning to the bed, Sam once again bathed Dean's face. He stirred and muttered but didn't wake up. Sam then stuck the thermometer back in Dean's ear and waited for it to beep. Dean still didn't wake. 103.1. Shit. Still a slow and steady rise. That was it. Sam knew where he could get help, and damn it, he was getting it.

Sam slipped out the motel door to use his cell. He'd probable catch hell from Dean. Sam could never figure out why Dean was so set on never asking anybody for help. And he hated it when anybody found out he wasn't invincible. _Yeah, Dude, because really, everyone so seriously believed that one. Well_, Sam thought, not _everyone, but maybe I believe it. Or at least, I want to believe it…_

Sam sighed and dialed his cell phone.

"Hi. It's Sam. Dean and I ran into a little trouble, and I was wondering if I could ask you for a favour…."

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter should give away the nickname… If you are trying to guess who is on the other end of the phone, remember when this is set…

Two more chapter to go….


	4. Reaching Out

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing and never will as I am totally in Kripke's debt for the loan of his boys…

**A/N:** This was my very first attempt at fanfiction. It is complete, so I'll post as time allows. Why, you may well ask, am I posting this here and now? (As it was posted elsewhere, _then_)… This is in answer to Mad Server's query as to where I got a certain nickname… I leave it up to all of you to determine what I am Queen of by the time we get to the end of this little "bridge."

**Spoilers** for Asylum and Scarecrow acts as a bridge between Asylum and Faith…

* * *

Reaching Out

Sam was surprised when he opened the motel room door to find that the sun was still low in the sky. The past couple of hours had seemed to last a lifetime, but they had checked in just after 10 that morning so it was only late afternoon. He ran a shaky hand over his face and then through his unruly hair.

_Dean is so gonna be pissed at me, but I've done everything I know to do, and he's still getting worse. Telling me he's fine is not helping._ Sam wasn't sure that his brother would have any more medical insight than he had himself even if he was willing to admit to how sick he was.

Dean needed antibiotics. The infection had had too much time to spread throughout his body.

_Time to call the cavalry_, Sam decided. He was willing to admit when he needed help. There he was again, being the blond chick from _The Munsters_ – the only one willing to make contact with the outside world. Not like this was really the outside world; and that was the only thing that Sam figured would save him when Dean found out that he'd made the call. Sam wasn't really breaking their circle.

Sam could never figure out why Dean was so set on never asking anybody for help. Of course, Dean hated it when anybody found out he wasn't invincible. Especially the people within their trusted circle because they were important to Dean. More important than Dean was to himself.

_Yeah, Dude, because really, everyone so seriously believes that you're invincible. Well_, Sam thought, _not everyone, but maybe I believe it. Or at least, I want to believe it…_

Sam sighed and dialed his cell phone. He'd deal with the fallout.

"Hi. It's Sam. Dean and I ran into a little trouble, and I was wondering if I could ask you for a favour…."

"Sam! Why is it that I don't hear from you for ages and then twice in almost as many days? I'm glad you called. Of course, you can ask me for anything," Pastor Jim's voice never failed to reassure Sam. "I'm assuming that as I'm talking to you, you are ok and Dean's not. I also assume he doesn't know you're calling?" Pastor Jim knew them well. "Still no luck finding your father either?"

"Uh, he called, but he didn't really say where he was or tell us how to get back in touch." For once, their father was the furthest thing from Sam's mind.

"Dean's had a rough couple of days and he's pretty beat up. I've done everything that I know how to do, but he has a bad infection and he seems to be getting worse."

_Shit!_ Sam actually felt like he was going to cry. It was just such a relief to get help. Jim had always been there for them growing up, and Sam had shared a special bond with the quiet and studious cleric. _Get your shit together_, he chided himself. _You've got help, but it's hundreds of miles away. You're still the front line here_.

Pastor Jim could hear Sam's struggle to hold it together and waited patiently for him to continue. He knew how stubborn Dean could be, and he knew the strength that Sam possessed and that Dean would rarely let him use. He shook his head sadly over Sam's news about John. He knew that John thought all of his actions were necessary to protect his boys, but so often, Jim thought John was way off base. They might be physically safe, but the emotional toll was just too high.

Sam took a deep breath and continued. "Dean went backwards through an old door two days ago and got a bunch of splinters in his back. He didn't tell me about it, and we'd split up for a day or so," Pastor Jim frowned at that there was subtext here that Sam wasn't sharing – "and then he got knocked out, um twice, and I think he might have a couple of broken ribs, and the splinters ended up abscessed and I had to lance them and cauterize them and now he's got a fever of 103.1 and he's not sweating.."  
"SAM!" Pastor Jim's voice finally broke into Sam's consciousness – _Damn, he'd been babbling_.

"Sorry."

"Take Dean to the hospital and do it now." Pastor Jim's voice could be just as hard as their father's. Which went a long way to explaining the fact that Dean inexplicably always listened to Pastor Jim.

"I….I….can't" Sam's voice faded to a whisper.

"Are you that short on cash and credit cards? Surely you still have your back up plan in place?" Pastor Jim didn't like the way the Winchesters made their living, but he was a practical man and was willing to balance the relatively small sin against all the good they did in the bigger picture.

"No. It's not that." Sam took a deep breath. There were so few people within their circle that he couldn't afford to lose any of them. How could he tell Pastor Jim that he'd shot his own brother? "Dean went through the door because he got a chest full of rock salt." Sam said it as quickly as possible – like ripping off a band aid – and waited – which seemed to take forever – for Pastor Jim's response.

"Right. Well, you can't afford the questions that would surely bring up." He knew from the anguish in Sam's voice that the boys were in trouble and from more than just Dean's injuries. It wasn't going to help the situation for him to pursue a line of questioning that was clearly really bothering Sam. Sam would need to stay focused to help his brother. There would be time later to deal with these demons.

"Ok. So you're dealing with a pretty massive infection, a serious concussion, some broken ribs, a fair amount of pain, and various cuts and bruises? Would that be a fair inventory?"

"Yeah," Sam was so relieved that Pastor Jim was willing to simply focus on Dean's well-being.

"We need to deal with the infection and the concussion. That fever has got to come down. Some of these symptoms could be caused by either injury. You can use ice and alcohol rubs to keep the fever down. If it gets really bad, you may have to put Dean in a tub of cold water. I would try to avoid that, however, what with the wounds to his back and chest. You can also use ibuprofen to keep the fever down and reduce the pain. You know the drill with the concussion: you can't let Dean sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, and you'll have to wake him enough to make sure he's coherent. That's going to be tricky. If the fever gets any worse it may make him delirious, so you'll have to weigh all the evidence to figure out what's causing what. What you really need are antibiotics. You know that I can send you those. Give me the address of your motel and I'll have them shipped overnight courier to you – If I hurry, I can get them off tonight and you'll get them first thing in the morning. If we're going to help Dean, you're going to need them as soon as possible."

Sam had called Pastor Jim precisely because he knew that Jim could get antibiotics for them. His position as a pastor afforded him the opportunity to get his hands on medicine to pass on to his most needy "parishioners".

"Thanks." Jim could hear the relief in Sam's voice. "Have you got a pen? We're in Indiana…" Sam gave Jim the entire address of the motel.

"Look, I won't keep you. You've got lots to do, and I've got to get this medicine packaged up. Call me if anything changes, Sam. Or if you just need to talk. I'm always here for you boys. I hope you know that."

Sam nodded in agreement and then realized that Pastor Jim couldn't see him. "Thanks again for all of your help." The line went dead, and Sam turned to return to the room and check on his brother.

Dean hadn't moved. It hurt too much. He was somewhere between conscious and unconscious, so he was aware that Sam had come back into the room and was moving quietly about it even if he didn't remember him leaving. The sheet that covered him hurt. It hurt to breathe. His head hurt. And, he'd realized that his left side really hurt where Ellicot had slammed him with the damn gurney to stop him from burning Ellicot's damn bones.

Maybe, if he was very still, it would stop hurting. Yeah, and maybe at some point Sammy would stop hovering over him like some kind of mother hen – or bitch – that did explain the whole puppy-dog eye vibe. Dean chuckled at that. Oh shit! He really did have to stop amusing himself, 'cuz that just hurt like a bitch!

"Dude? What the hell could you possibly find funny at this moment?" Sam just shook his head. "Don't answer that." Sam didn' t want Dean trying to talk. "Dean, I've got to go out and get some supplies for the first aid kit. We've pretty much managed to use up everything."

"Mmm," Dean's eyes were a slit of green in his pale, bruised face. The tiny bit of light making it into the room cut through his head like a hot scalpel through butter. Crap. Why'd he have to think about food…

"Will you be ok here on your own for a while? I'll leave your cell right beside you on the bed with my number up on speed dial. I'll leave water on the table here by your head, and your trusty barf bucket is just here in front of you on the floor."

"Dude, I never had a babysitter – you were the one that always needed to be watched," Dean's voice was a raspy, breathy whisper. "And Sammy? No more mention of the technicolour trash can pleeeaaassee."

"I want to take your temp once more before I go…" Sam was back with the thermometer. "Still 103.1. At least you're holding steady. Do you think you could eat something? Maybe some soup?"

Dean couldn't help it. He gagged. Just the thought of swallowing was too much for him. "Dude." He managed to keep it to one gag. "Since when did soup ever qualify as eating? I'm off soup anyway. Didn't much care for that last batch. Besides, did you pay any attention to basic first aid? Feed a cold and _starve _a fever…" Dean's voice was fading as his eyes were drifting closed.

Sam just humpfed. Clear liquids in any form were the order of the day. Sam quickly made a list of all the supplies he would need to make it through the night. There was no way in hell he was going to let Dean out of his sight more than once. Sam grabbed a damp towel and re-soaked it in cold water and alcohol, wiping Dean's face with it gently so as not to wake him. Sam quickly grabbed the keys to the Impala and his wallet and quietly shut the motel door, sparing one last glance back at his brother's sleeping form.

Sam had been gone about twenty minutes before Dean began dreaming. As soon as the fever-induced nightmare caused him to begin thrashing around in the bed, Dean was violently jerked back to consciousness by the sharp stabs of pain assaulting him from every direction.

"Sonuva_bitch_!" Dean gasped as his eyes flew open. The sharp intake of breath combined with the spasm of pain had him full out retching again. The best he could hope for was to miss the bed as it all happened so quickly. He was pleasantly surprised to find a handy receptacle right in front of his face. With so little left in his system, Dean was pretty much done before he started and slumped limply on the bed trying to gather his thoughts into something vaguely coherent. He'd need help with that.

"Sam?" No answer. "Sam?" He wasn't sure that the first one had been out loud, but he knew the second one had been.

"Sammy!" Ok. Now he was getting a bit pissed. Hmmmmm. New tactic. "Dad?" Still no answer. Idiots. They knew the rules. Stay in contact at all times. Form a chain of communication if you had to. Where the hell was everybody? Dean started to get really agitated. They'd left him again. _Crap._ Well, screw them. He wasn't going to take this lying down. He was a hunter. He'd find them.

Dean pawed at the sheet over him and finally managed to push himself mostly upright. He was panting from the pain and the exertion. His head was pounding and his vision was swimming in and out.

_Come on, come on_, Dean growled to himself.

There. Feet on the floor. Dean stood on very shaky legs clad only in his boxers. He fixed his glassy eyes on his destination and tottered towards the door – there was that damn word again – totter…. Or was it teeter? Teeter-totter. And that's pretty much what Dean looked like as he hit the floor.

* * *

**A/N:** So if you know me, I'm sure that you were expecting Bobby, but in season one they don't meet up with him until _Devil's Trap _and they say that they haven't seen each other in quite a while…

Only one more chapter to go! I think this is a great site and my goal is to have more reviews here than where I originally posted – the magic number is 95… so please leave a review?


	5. The Splintered Door

**Disclaimer:** As always, I own nothing and never will as I am totally in Kripke's debt for the loan of his boys…

**A/N:** This was my very first attempt at fan fiction. Why, you may well ask, am I posting this here and now? (As it was posted elsewhere, _then_)… This is in answer to Mad Server's query as to where I got a certain nickname… I leave it up to all of you to determine what I am Queen of by the time we get to the end of this little "bridge." And here we are at the end….

**Spoilers** for Asylum and Scarecrow acts as a bridge between Asylum and Faith…

* * *

The Splintered Door

Sam carefully considered the pile of merchandise he had gathered in his cart. Alcohol. Gallon jug. Check. Witch hazel. Check. Hydrogen peroxide. Check. Gauze. Check. Medical adhesive tape. Check. Ibuprofen. Check. Motion sickness pills. Check. Antibiotic ointment. Check. Bottled water. Check. Gatorade. Check. Large ziplock freezer bags. Check. Tensor bandages. Check. Loaf of bread and peanut butter. Check. M&Ms. Check. Just in case and as possible bribery/ reward… Surely to God he now had everything he could possibly need for the next eighteen hours? Because no way in hell was he leaving that motel room again until Dean was on the mend.

Sam made his way quickly to the check out and fished for their current credit card as the teenager at the register started totalling his rather extensive purchases.

He hated like hell that he had to use the damn thing but was so grateful that he had it to help Dean. Damn it to hell, though. How did he go from the doors of law school to grand theft auto and credit card fraud so quickly? Like in two freakin days. Sam smiled weakly at the checkout girl.

"Do you have an airmiles card?"

Sam couldn't contain the snort that escaped him at the absurdity of his brother having anything to do with an _airmiles_ plan. "Uh, sorry, no."

The girl looked at him oddly and took the credit card. Sam signed the receipt and got back to the Impala as quickly as he could. He'd stop at that diner on the way back to the room and get some food. His stomach seemed to be back to normal.

On the off chance that there were still certain smells lingering, though, Sam opted to eat his meal on the way back. He'd also ordered some soup for Dean in the off chance that he would start to feel well enough to eat it.

Sam didn't really think that was terribly realistic before Pastor Jim's antibiotics arrived and he could start Dean on them, however. Still, if Dean the insatiable appetite that walked like a man decided he was hungry, Sam wanted to have something to offer him.

Sam re-parked the Impala in front of their room forty-five minutes after leaving for his supply run. He figured it would take him two trips to get everything in from the car and make a run to the ice machine. His hands were full as he juggled parcels and fumbled with the key in the lock.

He hoped that Dean was still asleep. (A.) he needed the rest to help him heal and get the fever down and (B.) Sam would never live down his clumsy, noisy entrance into their room.

Sam's eyes were searching for his brother's form on the bed even as he pushed the door open. Two things happened simultaneously. First, Sam almost choked when he realised that his brother wasn't _in_ the bed, and second, the door ground to a halt.

As. It. Hit. Dean.

SHIT!!

"Dean! What the hell man!" Sam squeezed through the opening trying desperately not to inflict more damage on his brother with the door. He immediately fell to his knees beside his sibling gently patting his cheek. Dean was lying on his stomach, head toward the door – acting as a friggin door stop! – one hand was stretched out in front of him and one curled beneath his body. He was doing the shaking, writhing, twitching thing again. Sam was really beginning to hate that.

Not wanting to turn Dean over because of his back, Sam continued to try to rouse his brother by patting and then slapping his cheek.

"Dean! DEAN!"

Dean twitched more violently – not quite a start, but he was beginning to come around. Much to his displeasure – consciousness meant pain… Dean groaned and rewarded his brother with a tiny slit of green between his eyelids.

"Ha! I found you! You can't get away that easy Sam. Now I've got you, I'm going after Dad, and I'm gonna give him a piece of my mind," Dean's voice started out very faintly and weakly but gained in strength as he continued.

"Yeah. Dean, whatever Dude. If anybody did any finding, it was me. Not to mention playing hide and seek requires a minimum level of mobility which you so do not have right now. What is it with you and lying about on the floor of this dump – it can hardly be sanitary or comfortable."

Sam was rambling again. He knew it and was still powerless to stop it. Finally, Dean's words sank all the way in.

"What was that about Dad?"

"I'm g…g…gonna g…g…give him a p…p…piece of my mind. Is he st…st...still out in th...th…the Impala?" Dean's teeth were beginning to chatter with the chills that were wracking his body. Sam's eyebrows twitched together.

"Dean. Let's worry about Dad later. He's fine. You, on the other hand, are far from fine." Sam could feel the heat radiating off of his brother. The damn fever must have spiked while he was out because he was pretty sure his brother was pretty much delirious. Sam looked mournfully at his brother.

How the hell was he going to get the big jerk back into the bed? There was nowhere on Dean's entire body that wasn't either a bruise or an open sore. What the hell was he supposed to hold on to?

"Dean, man, we got to get you back into the bed. You're gonna hafta help me out, dude…" Sam got to his feet and straddled his brother. He hooked his hands under Dean's armpits.

"Ok, man, when I pull you up, do you think you can get your knees up under yourself?"

"Course I can Sammy…" Dean's words were slightly slurred and Sam really wasn't convinced that Dean was really with the program, but he had to get his brother into the damn bed, so he could assess his condition and plan his attack.

"On three…One. Two. Three!" Sam heaved and Dean weakly moved his legs underneath himself so that he was now kneeling on the floor. Unfortunately, the change in altitude caused the entire room to start spinning again. Dean swayed precariously, but Sam had a firm grip on him. Dean groaned and his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks.

"Hey! Hey, stay with me Dean," Sam encouraged. "God, man, you might be short, but you sure are dense!"

"Hey, just 'cuz I'm the pretty one doesn't mean I'm stupid!"

"Not that kind of dense. And Dude? You are so not pretty right now."

"Low blow, little brother."

Staying behind Dean, Sam braced himself to pull his brother up to his feet and guide him back to bed. "Ok. Now I'm gonna get you all the way to your feet – on three again: One. Two. Three!" and with that Sam hauled Dean to his feet and in one fluid motion swung him to a sitting position on the bed. Well, a slumping position, anyway. Luckily, he hadn't teetered all that far from the bed. Then, Sam was able to swing Dean's feet up and get him back lying in the bed.

"Unnghgh," Dean's grunt or strangled cry when he hit the bed wrenched again at Sam's heart. Sam grabbed the thermometer.

"Dean? Temperature." And Sam inserted the thermometer and pulled up the sheet to cover Dean's still shaking form. He still wasn't sweating. The thermometer beeped.

"Well, Florence? What's the verdict?" Dean's eyes were fever bright in a face that interspersed almost white with patches of rainbow colours.

"103.8. It's up. Dean, I've got to get this fever down. Look, just this once do as I ask and stay put? I'm going to finish bringing in the supplies and get some ice to bring down the damn fever." Sam hated that he sounded somewhere between petulant and whiney when asking for his brother's cooperation.

"S'k Sammy. M'fine." Dean was drifting off again for which Sam was infinitely thankful. Quickly grabbing one of the multi-purpose trash cans, Sam hurried out and filled it with ice. He grabbed the rest of the supplies, locked up the Impala, and practically ran back into the room. Dean hadn't moved.

Sam started packing ice in the freezer bags. Once he had six filled, he grabbed a towel and dampened it with warm water and then poured some of the alcohol on for good measure. He returned to the bed and drew down the sheet from Dean's still trembling body. Very gently, Sam wiped down Dean's torso, arms, and legs. Then he even more carefully wiped his brother's face. When he was done, Sam drew the sheet up over his brother's still shaking form. Sam then took the ice filled freezer bags and tucked them carefully against Dean's torso – three against his chest and three against his back. Ideally, the ice should be packed in Dean's armpits and the crooks of his knees – sites where a person would expel excess heat, but with Dean unable to lie on his back, Sam figured that this would have to do. Sam also wanted to avoid freezing his brother's skin and giving him frostbite by putting the ice in direct contact with his skin. Even so, it was no doubt unpleasant, especially as the fever had Dean feeling intensely cold already. This started his teeth chattering.

Dean made a noise that was alarmingly close to a whimper.

"Sammy?"

"Ya Dean? Right here with ya."

"S'cold."

"Sorry Dean, I've got to get the fever down."

"Sucks out loud."

"Try to go back to sleep, Dean." Sam knew that he would have to wake Dean at least every two hours to check on him because of the concussion, so he hoped Dean could grab as much sleep in between as possible. Dean being Dean, however, meant nothing was going to happen the easy way.

Sam grabbed a chair and dragged it close to his brother's bed. He watched as Dean's eyes fluttered closed, his dark lashes finally coming to rest on his too pale cheeks. The rest of his body continued to shudder from the effects of the ice and fever at war.

Sam was honestly surprised to hear his brother voice any complaint at all. If he was totally honest with himself, that scared Sam the most. He was always trying to get Dean to talk to him. To care and share. To admit that he had feelings. To NOT say he was "fine". Alright – to have a damn chick-flick moment.

But truth be told, Sam wasn't sure that he could really take the truth. Dean was home to Sam, and Sam clung to Dean's seemingly indestructible walls for support almost as much as Dean did himself. Dean's walls had taken a real beating over the last two hunts and he'd been interrupted in fixing the shattered door of his internal domain by the mutiny of his own body. Sam knew that if he was quick, he could catch a glimpse of what Dean kept hidden through the bits that hadn't been put back together yet. Sam also knew that he owed it to Dean to look. Dean kept things locked away and in doing so denied himself a great deal.

Sam knew something of Dean's "list". The one thing that Sam knew for sure about Dean's list was that Dean didn't make his own god damn list.

_Maybe_, Sam thought as he gazed on his brother's shaking form, _it's time I started my own list_.

He could help Dean to repair his walls, but that door needed to be repaired too. Fixed so that it actually worked when it needed to. Doors were meant to open and close; let people in and out. Sam didn't want to destroy who Dean was. He loved his brother and wasn't naïve enough to think that Dean could be Dean without any walls at all, but everyone needed an escape route sometimes.

Sam checked his watch. Twenty minutes. Time to check Dean's temperature.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?"

"Temperature."

"'K." almost inaudible. Sam put the thermometer in Dean's ear and waited impatiently.

"Hey, man. Down to 103.2. What say we take the ice away for a bit?"

"F…f…fine w…w….with m…m…me."

Sam quickly removed the bags of ice from around Dean and took them to the bathroom, dumping what remained in the bathtub. Sam was shocked to see how much of the ice had melted. He returned quickly to Dean's side bringing the ibuprofen and some water with him. The shaking had lessened a great deal when Sam removed the ice. Now he could hear Dean softly humming Metallica again. Sam laid his hand gently on Dean's shoulder. The thermometer might say the fever was down, but he still felt way too warm.

"Think you can take some more ibuprofen?"

"I c…c…can _take_ it…not saying how long I'll _keep _it…" Dean groaned as he pushed himself upright enough to swallow the pills and a few mouthfuls of water.

"Not too much, Dean. I don't want you to get dehydrated, but don't overload your stomach either."

Dean sank back into the bed and his eyes fluttered closed again. Sam grabbed his trusty towel and after dampening it with warm water and alcohol, gently wiped his brother's face again.

Next Sam got yet another towel and dampened it with the witch hazel he had bought.

"Dean? I'm just going to put some witch hazel on your ribs and other bruises to help with the swelling."

Dean merely grunted in acknowledgement. He was tired. Moving hurt. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. He hurt too much to care that he was allowing his brother to take care of him like he was an invalid. He hurt too much to figure out which rule number he was breaking now. He didn't often wish to be unconscious but that was exactly what he was wishing for at the moment.

Sam carefully pulled the sheet from his brother again and proceeded to wipe any area devoid of an open sore down with the witch hazel which would remove a lot of the sting and bring down the swelling. It would also help reduce

Dean's body temperature, much like the alcohol, but without the sting and without drying out Dean's skin which would further dehydrate him. Dean wasn't shaking as much, so Sam was at least a little relieved. Once again, Sam gently eased the sheet up over his brother. This time he also pulled the blanket as far as his hips. So far, Dean had managed to keep the water and painkillers down which was a good sign.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?"

"Think you could try some Gatorade?"

"Stuff tastes like shit."

"You need it, Dude. You gotta avoid dehydration."

"K."

Once more Dean pushed himself up just enough to be able to drink the Gatorade for Sam. After a few swallows, Dean shook his head weakly. He knew even one more swallow and the whole lot, including the painkillers, was coming back up. He sank wearily back into the bed, regarding his brother through half closed eyes.

"You ok, Sam?"

"What?" Sam almost gasped, his eyebrows disappearing into his bangs in disbelief. He couldn't have just heard his half dead brother wondering if _he_ was alright. It was vintage Dean – MIA in list territory.

"Dude. I'm fine."

"You look a bit like shit."

"Thanks. I'm good. Might just be that you can barely see straight."

"K then." It was better than a bedtime story for Dean. As soon as he was sure that Sam was ok, he could sleep. Then Sam sank wearily into the chair to watch his brother and wait another half hour to check his temperature and possibly re-apply the ice.

Sam had no intention of falling asleep, but he'd had precious little sleep himself in the last few days, and the worry and strain over Dean's injuries finally caught up with him. Sam was wrenched out of his cocoon of sleep by a sharp cry of pain and thrashing coming from Dean's bed. Sam glanced quickly at the clock.

"OH CRAP!" Not only had he missed the half hour deadline, he had also missed the two hour, check the concussion appointment.

Dean was clearly in distress. His face was flushed – but still no sweating. He was writhing and struggling against the sheet and blanket covering him, and every time he moved, he gasped or cried out as he aggravated one of his injuries. Sam quickly grasped him by the arms to immobilize him.

"Dean! Wake up!"

No response except more struggling.

"DEAN! STOP IT!" Sam did his best to mimic his father's best military tone. Dean instantly stilled. Sam knew that Dean would never disobey an order. Wasn't that what he'd been criticizing Dean for over the last few days? Blindly obeying orders. Sam cringed inwardly at using his father's tactics against Dean. But it wasn't _against _Dean, was it? This was helping Dean. _God. I hate it when he's right, _Sam thought, not sure even himself which _he,_ he meant.

Sam rolled Dean back to his side as he'd managed to get himself onto his back and Sam didn't want him opening up those sores again. Grabbing the thermometer, Sam stuck it in Dean's ear and then swatted at Dean's hand as he tried to push him away.

"Dean? Are you with me bud?"

"Yeah Sammy." Dean's voice was barely a raspy whisper.

"Were you having a nightmare?"

"Don't 'member." Dean mumbled as the thermometer beeped.

"Sonuvabitch!"

"D…d…dude! That's m…m…my l…l…line!" Dean's teeth were starting to chatter again. _No freakin' wonder_, Sam thought.

"Dean. It's 104."

"Huh? What?"

"Your temperature, man. That's the magic number. I gotta get you to the hospital."

"S…s…sammy – n..n…no. C…c…can't d…d…do it. D…d…dangerous." Dean was panting with the effort of talking and shaking. _Oh shit_, Dean could feel it building in his chest, and he knew the chorus of chest, ribs, and back were going to have a field day, but he was powerless to stop the cough that was building. And then white light was exploding behind his eyes and he _was _coughing, and then worse, he was starting to gag. Sam managed to get the trauma tub and Dean managed to get over the side of the bed to bid farewell to the bit of Gatorade that was left in his stomach. Finally, he was done – in _oh so many ways_, he thought - and Dean lay gasping helplessly like a beached fish.

"Get more ice Sam. Worked the last time."

"Dean. It's not worth your life."

"G…g…give it 20 minutes Sam. If it doesn't go down, we can go." Dean tried harder not to let his teeth chatter.

Sam scowled, pressed his lips together, _and_ huffed. _Damn __**triumvirate**_, Dean snarked quietly to himself and smirked.

"Dude, what the _hell_ is funny now?" Sam didn't wait for an answer but went and fetched more ice. Before packing the ice around his brother, Sam once again, gently washed his brother's entire body with witch hazel and alcohol. Dean was refusing to let Sam see him shiver. He couldn't stop his own body from betraying him, however. No way could Sam miss the heat radiating off of his brother or the fact that his nipples were rock hard as he bathed his chest. It was too soon for more ibuprofen if he wanted Dean to keep it down, but Sam did get Dean to sip some more water. It helped to ease the burning in Dean's throat and mouth. Once he had the ice packed around his brother again, Sam sat opposite him in his chair to wait out the twenty minutes.

"Sammy?" Dean regarded his brother through half-closed eyes yet again. The slit of green that Sam could see was still fever bright.

"Yeah Dean?"

"If you tell anyone that you turned me into Sponge Bob Square Pants, I _will_ kill you."

"Trust me, Dude – it's our little secret." Sam glanced again at the clock. It was a little after 3am. If they were lucky, the antibiotics might arrive any time after 7am. Dean seemed to have drifted off again, and Sam shook his head as his own eyes started to drift closed. Dean started muttering in his sleep, his eyes darting back and forth under the lids. Suddenly, his eyes flew open --

"Sam!"

Sam almost fell off his chair it was so sudden and so urgent.

"What?! Dean?" Dean began to struggle under his blanket of ice as he seemed to be attempting to get up. Luckily he wasn't getting too far because of a combination of his injuries and the weight of the bags of ice. Sam gently placed a hand on Dean's shoulder to complete the restraint. He was momentarily struck by just how easy it was to prevent his brother from rising. Under normal conditions, even sitting on Dean with his height and weight advantage wouldn't insure that Sam could keep Dean down. Some days Sam was convinced that nothing could keep his brother down.

"Cut it out Sam. Let me up. Gotta go." Dean's words were urgent.

"Where's this coming from Dean? What the hell? Where do you think you have to go?" Sam frowned down at his brother. The slurring in Dean's words hadn't escaped his attention either.

"Mm, Dad. Gotta get Dad? He wanted me t' do something…" Dean became less focused and more slurred. _Damn it. He's delirious again_, Sam concluded.

"Dude. It's ok. Mission accomplished. You did what Dad wanted you to do; you got that fugly bastard just like you always do. You can relax. Go back to sleep."

"Huh? Right. Dad said he didn't _want _our help. My help. Yeah, sorry Sammy, I forgot. Just be in the way, or screw it up."

And that right there scared the crap outta Sam again. This was shit Dean would _never _say out loud; it was an indication of just how big a hole was still left in that damn door. And Sam wished with all his heart that the damn door was up again because hearing Dean doubt himself was breaking his heart – right until he was so angry with his father – _again_ – that he was almost gasping for air.

Dean _was _the good son; he always followed orders and showed that damn blind faith in his father and never got any credit for it. John just took it for granted. But then, if Sam were honest, Dad wasn't the only one who took Dean for granted and occasionally manipulated his big heart for his own ends.

Sam suddenly also realized that Dean had lost someone at about the same time that he had lost Jess. Dean had lost Dad. Sure he wasn't dead, but he'd pushed Dean away and left a huge hole in his wake.

"Dad's wrong about this Dean. We need to hunt this thing down together. We could both help him."

"I want to see him. Need to know he's …k." If Sam hadn't been so close to his brother, he wouldn't have heard the whispered plea. "Sometimes, it's nice just to have to do what you're told, ya know?"

"Sure Dean." Sam's voice was quiet as he gently rubbed his brother's arm in an attempt to comfort him. He was startled when his wrist was grabbed in a surprisingly, and somewhat painfully, strong hand.

"Sammy!"

"Dean, what is it?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Not bein' ok with bein' alone. Making you stay. Disappointing you."

"Dude, we already covered this. You're not _making_ me do a damn thing, so get over yourself already. And what the hell? You never disappointed me Dean. You're the best big brother I could ever have."

"I shouldn't have dragged you back into this, Sammy. You deserve more." Dean's words were still slightly slurred and his voice barely audible.

"Dean, I don't deserve anything any more than you do. You aren't the only one who cares about our family. Even if it is totally screwed up. And you aren't the only one who can make sacrifices for it, but it's not a sacrifice for me to be here with you now."

"Can't say I didn't try to let you go, Sammy. I tried to let you go when you went to Stanford. Hell, I held out for two years. I'm sorry I dragged you back. Tried to let you go on the road. But you did come back on your own this time."

"Had to save your ass, didn't I?"

Dean chuckled weakly and sighed, "Had a plan…" His hand finally let go of Sam's wrist and fell limply to the bed.

"Time to face the music; I'm gonna check your temp, again, and if it's not down, I'm taking you to the damn hospital." Sam inserted the thermometer.

"Well, F...fffrancis?"

Sam sighed and smiled slightly, "It's down a bit: 103.5. How about that ibuprofen now?" Sam realized that he should have recognized that Dean was becoming increasingly coherent as they talked – a sure indication that the delirium was passing as his temperature decreased.

"Thought you'd never ask." Once again, Dean propped himself up just enough to get the pills down and collapsed back onto the bed with a groan.

"I'm going to take the ice away again for a while."

"Totally no argument here."

By the time Sam dumped the latest round of ice and returned to his brother's side, Dean was once again asleep. Deciding it was ok to let him sleep for a while, Sam settled back into his chair. No way was he falling asleep again.

The rest of the night passed fairly uneventfully with Sam checking his brother's temperature and packing ice around him every forty minutes or so – 20 minutes on/ 40 minutes off – preceding each icing with an alcohol or witch hazel rub. Dean's temperature slowly but surely decreased. By 6:30 it was down to 102.5, and then finally, blissfully, and wonderfully, he began to sweat as the fever broke in earnest. Unfortunately, that meant a whole new level of torture for Dean as the salty sweat ran into the open sores on his back. That pretty much put an end to any more sleep for the immediate future.

Seeing that his brother was awake – more or less – Sam suggested another round of Gatorade and ibuprofen. Dean pushed himself up and took the offered painkillers and then collapsed back on the bed with a groan. Meanwhile, Sam was preparing his trusty towel.

"How about you let me wipe off the sweat?"

"How about I just grab a shower?"

"Dean, you can barely get up enough to take the ibuprofen; what makes you think you could _stand_ in the shower?"

"Kill joy."

"Whatever." Sam smiled tightly to himself. Dean was definitely on the mend and sounding like, well, _Dean_.

"Thanks Sammy." Dean's voice was barely above a whisper and when he immediately started humming Metallica the humming was actually louder. The door was slamming shut. Sam was grateful for the little bit of insight he had gained into his brother.

Sam was just pulling the sheets back up over his brother when a knock at the door startled the both of them. Sam quickly crossed to the door and yanked it open to find the courier delivery guy he had been expecting. He practically yanked the package out of the poor guy's hands and almost forgot to tip him.

Sam quickly opened the parcel and removed the contents. Anitbiotics, decent painkillers, and an envelope, containing a hundred dollars and a note from Pastor Jim. The note read:

_I think you currently have need of a little help, so please allow me the privilege of providing that help. When you feel up to travelling, why don't you swing by for a visit? I'd love to see you boys. Jim._

Sam smiled. He'd always appreciated Pastor Jim and never more than at that moment. He was pretty sure that Dean wouldn't want to take the time for a visit and would be embarrassed by the money, so Sam just pocketed the cash and the letter. He'd send Jim a proper thank-you when he got a chance.

"Well Sammy? Gonna share the Christmas package or keep it all for yourself?"

"Sorry." Sam quickly tapped out two of the antibiotics and one of the painkillers, moving to Dean's side and handing them to his brother with a glass of water.

"Think you could keep down a half a piece of bread, Dude? It says your supposed to eat with those pills." Dean groaned.

"I'll try."

Surprisingly enough, Dean was able to eat a whole piece of plain bread. Sam found he was starving and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. He couldn't help but smile as he ate and watched his brother nodding off.

"Dude. Stop staring at me. You are totally creeping me out. 'M fine, now. You're officially off duty, so turn in and get some sleep." Dean regarded his sibling through narrowed eyes.

"I don't want your temperature going back up…" Sam knew that his brother was over the worst now, but it scared him the sacrifices his brother was willing to make for him. The overpowering need Dean seemed to have to protect him.

"Sammy. It's over. Nothing to see here. Go. To. Bed."

"Ok." Sam admitted defeat. He stripped down to his boxers and visited the bathroom. Before climbing into bed, however, he insisted on checking Dean's temperature again – 101 – and got Dean to drink a little more Gatorade.

As he lay in bed almost too tired to sleep, Sam heard Dean grunt and shift around on his bed.

"You ok man?"

"Yeah. Just tired of laying in the same position for so long. Not much choice though as some idiot friggin' shot me…" Sam could hear the smile in Dean's snark.

"Well, I promise never to do it again." Sam cringed. "Really, Dean. I'm sorry."

"I'm just pullin' your chain. But if you ever shoot me again, I'll damn well shoot you back."

"No you won't."

"Well. I'll punch you even harder."

"I'm not going to shoot you again, Dean."

"Well, next time at least make sure I land on something soft – no more friggin' doors…"

"Dean! I'm not going to shoot you again. _Ever._ – Jerk."

"Bitch."

Several days later Sam was working away on the computer, and Dean was resting on his bed happily plowing his way through another bag of M&Ms. Sam was regretting getting his brother that much sugar. In between crunching, there was humming and foot giggling, which meant bed squeaking, which meant – hello – impossible to concentrate.

"Got us a gig yet, there geek-boy?"

"Dean, you're barely healed. Damn it, you're not healed."

"Prove it."

"How can I when you won't even let me look?"

"You can look, if you can catch me…"

"SO not going there."

"So. Got us a gig yet?"

Sam sighed and shook his head. He supposed he should be happy that he'd kept his brother immobile for this long.

"Ok. Here's something. I think I might be on to a rawhead." At least that would be a relatively easy hunt to start up with.

"Awesome! Look, there's something I've been meaning to try with the tasers…."

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you've enjoyed this. When I originally wrote this, it was supposed to be a one chapter one shot and just developed a life of its own. It still holds a special place in my heart because it was my first attempt to wander in the world of the Winchesters….


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